


True New Yorkers don't greet Death, because they know Death never Leaves

by natcat5



Series: Dark Month 2015 [23]
Category: Marvel 616, Young Avengers
Genre: Comicverse New Yorkers have Seen Some Shit, Family, Fear of Death, Gen, Kaplan brother OCs, Kaplan family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 09:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5086000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no class on what to do when your brother becomes a superhero. There's no manual on how to deal with the reality of the danger he faces every time he goes out. Nothing to tell you how to deal with the constant fear that he's going to die, and you're going to watch it happen on live TV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True New Yorkers don't greet Death, because they know Death never Leaves

\--

When you are nine years old, your younger brother tells you that he wants to be a policeman.

His face is flush with excitement, hands waving through the air as he tells you about the uniform and hat that he’ll wear. About the car with the sirens and how he’ll take down _all_ the bad guys.

You are nine years old. Your classmates are beginning to talk about things other than toys and video games. Adults are beginning to censor themselves a little less around you. Your parents aren’t quite so quick to change the channel when something violent comes on the news. You _know_ things.

You tell your younger brother that that’s a stupid idea. That policemen die every day. That there are too many superpowered people around now. That if he signed up he’d probably get a car thrown at him, or a building dropped on him, or frozen or burnt up or-

Your younger brother starts to cry. Your older brother stomps out of his room, wondering what all the racket is. He’s babysitting, and is grumpy about it. He’s thirteen now, and that means he can’t like his younger siblings anymore. Or something.

He asks you why your brother is crying. You tell him that he’s just being a baby. He asks what you said to make him cry. You fold your arms across your chest. He scowls at you. You tell him that you just told him the truth. That being a policeman was stupid because they died all the time because they couldn’t handle people with powers.

Your older brother does not like that answer. Superheroes are his favourite thing, and he runs a blog or something that defends them and mutants. You knew he wouldn’t like that answer. He keeps scowling and tells you to apologize to your younger brother, and also that you have to wash the dishes after dinner. You say that that’s his job. He tells you too bad.

Your younger brother is still dewy eyed and sniffling. You do feel bad about that. You’re sorry. You tell him so, but maintain that he should still find something else he wants to do when he’s grown up. You also ask him not to tattle to your parents when they get home. He sniffles again.

He tattles to your parents when they get home.

Your mom sits you down before you go to bed, and her face is all kinds of serious, which you hate. She’s probably going to ground you forever. You’re nine, which means you’re old enough to be grounded now.

But she just looks at you, sad, and asks if you’re afraid of people with powers.

You are not expecting the question, and you’re stuck for an answer, floundering under her scrutinizing gaze. You never said anything like that. When did you say anything like that? You _didn’t._

This is a grown-up question, you can recognize that. A serious one. You can’t give a silly, little kid answer. And you’ve talked about this at school as well. About mutant tolerance, and not being prejudiced, even though New York is getting attacked every other week and even though people around you could be mutants and inhumans and dangerous and you wouldn’t even _know._

You tell her that you think people with powers are dangerous, but it doesn’t mean they’re bad or anything, just dangerous. And you’re not afraid. You just know that they’re dangerous. And that trying to deal with them when you don’t have powers is dumb. Let the people with powers do it. All the superhero teams that are around. Maybe so many police wouldn’t die every day, if they just stayed away from people with powers.

It’s a very grown up answer, you think. You’re proud of it.

Your mom looks sad.

Please remember that Jacob is still young, she tells you, he’s too little for talk of people dying and being killed. At least, not in such blunt terms.

Sorry, you say. And then, because the anticipation is torture, you ask if you’re grounded for making Jacob cry.

No, she says, Billy had you do the dishes, right? That’s fine.

You breathe out a sigh of relief, but stiffen when you see that she’s still looking at you. Still looking at you with that _look._

Joshua, she says. Do you think about death a lot?

That’s a terrible question. But your mom always asks terrible question. It’s part of her psychologist contract or whatever.

No, you say. I’m not a weirdo.

Please remember that you can talk to me about anything, she says.

Yes mom, you reply. I know.

\--

You are twelve years old, and are apparently old enough to stay home alone, just yourself and your younger brother.

Hey, he says, sitting on the couch beside you with his eyes glued to the footage of the ‘Young Avengers’ bungled attempt at breaking a hostage situation in a Church.

Hey, your younger brother says. Do you think the one with the cape looks like Billy?

You look up briefly. Everything on the TV. is moving fast and is too blurry. Everything around the one with the cape is staticy, especially when he sends bright golden lightning through the air.

Don’t be stupid, you say, shoving your brother’s shoulder. Billy can’t fly.

It’s been a few months since your older brother’s school called. A few months since he was outed as a mutant. And in the time since, your mother’s been on a warpath of political correctness and the creation of safe spaces. All the stuff you learn about in your social studies class and the periodic anti-bullying seminars. The ones everyone talks during and over, like they don’t care at all. Your home is now a 100% mutant-friendly zone, and you try not to think about the stuff you believed when you were younger, about mutants being inherently dangerous. You don’t want to think that anymore. Things are different now.

People who used to say hi to you in the hallways now snicker and ask you how your mutie brother is doing. People who sat with you at lunch move away. Someone comes up to you and tells you that they heard your brother killed someone. People whisper. People laugh.

You don’t care about any of them. You’ve read your mother’s child psychology books. You know everyone in your age group is running on bravado, hormones, and stupidity. No, you don’t care about them. They’re not what you’re worried about.

It’s the anti-mutant radicals. The people who form mobs and rush people on the street. It’s the constant push for identification and imprisonment. It’s the mutant hate crowds and the way every morning dawns with a new mutant body found mutilated in an alley somewhere.

It’s been three years since your mother sat you down and asked you if you think about death a lot.

You live in New York City, the hotbed of superhero and supervillain and mutant and anti-mutant activities. They clash every week and level a block every month and every day there’s a new flashing headline with a body count.

It’s not that you think about death a lot, it’s that you’re surrounded by it.

Even the superheroes themselves aren’t immune to it. You remember the mourning, the public services, after the tragedy at the Avengers’ Mansion, and their disbandment. You remember the names that your older brother has memorized. All of those who have fallen in duty. Killed by villains or brainwashed teammates or whatever new thing has been cooked up to rid the world of mutants and inhumans. Death and dying. Even the superpowered aren’t exempt. In fact, they seem to be more prone to it than anyone.

Billy can’t fly, you repeat, ignoring the twisting feeling in your stomach as the camera catches a rare shot of the one in the cape’s face. Billy can’t fly.

You don’t think you could handle worrying about your brother being involved with superheroes on top of him being a mutant. Not in this city. Not here, with its towering skyscrapers and endless casualty lists.

You don’t think you could handle it.

But it would be cool if it were Billy, says your younger brother, oblivious, We’d be related to a superhero!

The reporter on screen tears into the Young Avengers for being offensive, dangerous, in need of incarceration, and it rings too closely to the propaganda you hear people spewing all the time. Against mutants. Against your brother.

It wouldn’t be that cool, you reply. And Billy can’t fly.

You wouldn’t be able to handle it.

\--

Your dad picks you and your younger brother up from school, and tells you that you’re going to stay with your aunt upstate for a little while.

Your younger brother asks why. You ask where your mother and older brother are.

Your mother is packing bags for you, says your dad. And then he hesitates.

She’s…also staying behind to talk to…the authorities. He says awkwardly. Boys, don’t panic, but-

He tells you that your apartment’s been destroyed by a rogue alien attack. Your mother and older brother are fine, but someone else was killed.

Your younger brother looks damp-eyed, but he just asks how long it will take to be fixed. Most buildings in New York have excellent damage insurance, and the repair speed is generally fantastic. And it’s not like they don’t know people who’ve had stuff destroyed in some attack or another. It’s New York.

Is Billy staying with Mom, you ask. Because your dad hasn’t mentioned Billy.

He doesn’t reply. For a long time, he doesn’t reply.

Dad? You ask again.

We’re going to have a family meeting when they come up to your aunt’s house, your Dad says, Billy and your Mom will probably arrive together.

Probably? You repeat. That same sick feeling twisting in your stomach.

The traffic is getting thicker. More and more cars are joining you on the road out of the city. Out of the back window, you can see the sky lighting up, crackling with light and fire and battle. Maybe the alien attack wasn’t so isolated, after all.

You are thinking about what the newspaper tomorrow morning will bring. You are thinking about casualty lists.

It’ll be okay, Josh, says your younger brother, touching your arm, See? The Avengers are taking care of it. They’re back again.

Now you sound like Billy, you say, turning away from the window.

You are not crying. Things will work out alright. You’ll see your mother and older brother again. These things happen all the time.

New York, New York.

\--

Your brother is a superhero.

Your brother is a potentially Alpha Level mutant. His powers extend far beyond a little electromagnetism. He can fly.

All of your brother’s new friends are superheroes. His boyfriend is an alien. Half-alien. And then the other half is also alien. It’s his fault your apartment was trashed.

There’s something about the Scarlet Witch that you don’t really understand. Something else about spells and magic and how your brother can also do spells and magic.

Your brother is a superhero. He can fly.

The responses are varied. Your mom is upset that he’s been hiding it. Your dad seems at a loss as to how to react. He seems happy that the Avengers are involved, at least. Your younger brother says ‘I told you so!’ at you about a million times, and asks your older brother a million questions about the bad guys he’s stopped and the famous superheroes that he’s met and what his powers can _really_ do.

You can’t think of anything to say.

No, that’s not true.

Are you going to keep doing it? You ask, quiet. Are you going to keep going out?

Your older brother doesn’t hesitate. He grins wide and puffs up his chest and says of course! Especially now that the Avengers are _finally_ taking them seriously, and have _finally_ agreed to train them.  

You wait for your mom to tell him he can’t. You wait for your dad to tell him he can’t.

They tell him that they’re proud of him.

\--

You are twelve years old and your brother is a superhero.

You see him soar about in his red and black outfit on the news. You watch as the Young Avengers are transformed into well known, almost _respected_ superheroes in the eyes of the public.

Your younger brother thinks it’s the coolest thing, even if he can’t tell anyone about it. Your parents are proud. They worry, but they trust that the Avengers will prevent your older brother from getting into any missions that are too dangerous.

New York continues to be New York. Supervillains attack and aliens invade. Mutants rise up and mutants are risen up against. Every day there’s a new casualty list. Every day there’s a new reason for people not to choose the police as a career choice. You watch the news and see superheroes fighting to protect you. You see them fly through the air and leap over buildings and you see them slammed into the pavement and cut to pieces. They never seem to stay down for long. Always seem to get back up. They’re superheroes, after all.

So was Hawkeye. So was Ant-man.

You are twelve years old, and your older brother is a superhero.

And you can’t stop thinking about him dying.

\--

When you were nine, your mom asked you if you thought about death a lot. You said that you didn't. And it was true. You didn’t think about death anymore than the average New Yorker, who was steeped in it daily.

You are twelve years old, and you dream of it now.

The sunset over New York City is always very red, and you’re fixated on it. It reminds you of the uncensored news broadcasts. The splashes of incriminating colour in the background behind the reporter. The truth behind the clinical numbers of the next morning’s casualty figures.

You think it’s lame that you’re getting nightmares. You think it’s even lamer that they’re all the same. Billy dead Billy dead Billy dead. Like a bad song on repeat. _You’re going to watch your brother die on TV one of these days,_ the lyrics go. The chorus is the names of all the superheroes who have already fallen in battle, chanted over and over. It’s stuck in your head.

Your dreams aren’t graphic. You don’t dream of seas of blood or broken bodies. But you dream of death, and you wake up crying, and in the morning, you stare at your older brother for longer than is normal. You can’t help it. You feel like you need to memorize his face, out of costume. So that him lying dead as Wiccan isn’t the only image of him you have emblazoned in your brain.

You know you’re being ridiculous.

You can’t stop thinking about him dying.

He stares back, eyes narrowed.

\--

You can’t hide it for long.

You expected as much, since your mom is a psychologist. But surprisingly, it’s not her who catches on. It’s not her who hears you crying in the middle of the night.

It’s Billy.

“Hey,” he says softly, flipping on the light in your room. You’re sitting bolt upright in bed, cheeks wet. Your nose is running, and your chest hurts with the pain of the dream. You never know you’re dreaming when it’s happening. Every time, you think Billy’s really dead. It hurts. It hurts so much. You hate it.

“Josh,” he says, stepping into your room and moving to sit on the edge of your bed. You realize that you’re still crying. And shaking. You’re shaking.

You want to wipe it all away, all the tears and pain and bad memories. You want to show him that you’re okay. You don’t want him to have to worry about you.

But you can’t.

You can’t keep it inside.

Billy hugs you, pulls you to his chest and holds you, making soothing sounds and rubbing your back. He says ‘it was just a dream, Josh’ and he says ‘it’s okay, I’m here’ and he says ‘don’t worry’ and you can’t keep it inside anymore.

“I keep dreaming about you dying,” you sob into his shirt, “I keep dreaming about you being killed.”

Billy stiffens and you keep shaking. You press your cheek against the spot where his heart is and listen to it. It’s so lame and you’re so pathetic but it makes you feel better and it reminds you that the dream isn’t real. Yet.

“Josh,” Billy says after a long silent. His voice sounds rough. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were having nightmares.”

“They’re not _nightmares,_ ” you defend, still pressed against his shirt, “They’re something that could happen. They could be _real_.”

He’s silent again, and you feel him exhale slowly.

“I always thought Mom and Dad would take it the hardest,” he says, quiet, “I thought Mom would cry every time I went out. I was so happy when that didn’t happen. I didn’t even stop to think about you and Jake. I guess I just assumed you guys would think it was cool.”

“Jake does,” you say, lifting your face, “Jake thinks it’s the coolest thing to ever happen. I think he likes Wiccan more than he likes you.”

Billy laughs a little, quietly. He keeps holding you, and you let your head rest on his shoulder. You’ll be embarrassed in the morning. Right now, you just want to hug your big brother.

“I know it’s scary, Josh,” he says, letting his cheek rest on the top of your head, “And I wish I could make it less scary, but I can’t. This is something I have to do. I have- I have a _lot_ of power. And I want to use it to protect people. I want to defend everything I care about, and fight alongside my heroes and my friends. I know it’s dangerous, but I’m not alone. I’m never alone. I always have people watching my back. You think Teddy’s going to let something happen to me? Have you _seen_ Teddy all hulked out and scaly?”

You laugh a little, then. You like Teddy a lot. He’s nice and funny and he loves hearing embarrassing stories about Billy. Hulkling and Wiccan are always together during battles. Always. It doesn’t make you feel that much better though.

“I know it’s still scary, and I know it’s still hard,” Billy continues, “I wish there was something else I could tell you to make you worry less, but there really isn’t. You just have to trust I can take care of myself, and that my team will always be there if I can’t.”

You exhale shakily, lifting a hand to wipe your eyes. You still feel sick with fear. You know you’ll dream of him dying again.

“You need to talk to mom,” he says, “Okay? If this is keeping you up, you probably need to talk to someone.”

“Like a therapist?” you ask, and he nods.

You don’t know how you feel about that. You can’t imagine it will help, since you already know what the root of your nightmares is and you also know there’s nothing to make it go away.

But it might be nice to talk to someone. To just…air everything out. You’re quieter than your siblings. You have a tendency to fold inwards on yourself. It might be nice to talk. You’ll think about it.

Right now, however, you’re tired. It’s some terrible hour in the morning, and Billy’s warm and smells like home. You’re twelve years old and too old to fall asleep in your big brother’s arms while he rubs your back soothingly, but you do anyways.

The sound of his heartbeat is steady and consistent. It follows you into your dreams, and reminds you that he is alive.

 

**Author's Note:**

> OCs are so lukewarmly accepted in fandom. But it's so irritating that Billy has canon younger Kaplan brothers that have just never existed in more than passing mention. And they're only mentioned _once_. It's so weird. Anyways I've always wanted to write Kaplan family reactions to Billy being a superhero, since it's glossed over in canon. I'm always hesitant to write OC povs though. Even though it's fun. I'd love to do a fic about Josh meeting Tommy, haha.


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